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mother-Soul 


Caura  IK.  Smitb  [6mr] 


EVERY  STITCH  IS  A  BENEDICTION. 

I  see  the  curved  cheek  of  a  Woman. 

I  see  that  her  head  is  bent  — 

Bent  low  over  a  small  white  piece  of  cloth. 

My  soul  stands  aside. 

The  needle  plies  in  and  out;  she  is  alone  in  the  room. 
She  is  thinking  of  something;  she  has  a  secret. 
The  smile  in  her  eyes  is  hidden  —  but  /  know;  — 
The  slow  sweep  of  her  bosom  proclaims  her; 
The  light  in  her  face  proclaims  her; 
The  thing  in  her  lap  proclaims  her. 

It  is  a  baby-yoke. 

The  woman  is  sacred  —  removed  —  apart. 

She  does  not  need  us. 


THE  LITTLE  OUTFIT. 

Oh,  the  world  is  glad  and  bonny, 
Oh,  the  world  is  coming  on  ! 

I  hear  the  pull  of  the  thread  through  the  cloth  ! 
I  see  the  sewing  pinned  to  the  knee ! 
I  hear  the  double-quick  of  the  heart ! 

(China,  Peru,  Vermont,  Malay — 

There  is   something  going   on  in   the  land  —  something  discreet, 

designed  ! ) 
Lay  your  ear  to   the   world;   do  you   not  hear   the   mother-pulse 

beating,  beating — 

With  strong  and  steady  pulsations  beating  under  the  world? 
Do  you  not  see  the  women  —  the  women  —  with  bent  heads  hiding 

the  glow  in  the  cheek  — 
Do  you  not  see  the  pricked  fingers  and  the  prayer  in  the  heart? 

Lay  your  ear  to  the  world  — 


A  baby's  smile  is  like  a  flash  of  light  on  summer  seas. 
A  baby's  smile  is  like  a  star  in  a  rift  between  two  clouds. 
A  baby's  smile  is  like  a  rainbow  in  an  April  storm. 

A  baby's  smile  leaps  up  and  up  and  out  the  starry  eyes 
like  joy-beams  on  a  mountain  lake  at  morning  ! 


A  baby  is  a  little  mighty  interrogation  point,  bulging 
with  grown-up  traits,  tapering  to  pink  and  white, 
and  ending  in  a  dimple  ! 


And,  oh,  a  baby's  neck  ! 

The  snares  within  a  baby's  neck  ! 

The  kisses  hidden  there  ! 

The  delicate  lines ! 

The  sturdy  fullness  at  the  back  — 

And  all  the  sweet  seductive  white  and  warmth 
and  softness  of  a  baby's  neck! 


The  almost  gold,  the  almost  silk  of  the 
fine  woven  threads  from  out  the 
loom  of  God  on  that  dear  baby 
head! 


Oh,  light  and  shadow  through  a  trellis-work  of  vines  — 
Oh,  dancing  golden  sunshine  lacing  in  and  out  with 
trembling  shadow-leaves ! 

Oh,  light  and  shadow  in  the  temple-corner  of  my  baby's  ey 
Oh,  softer  shadow  lying  just  beneath  the  brow — 
Oh,  deeper,  darker  shadow  in  the  half-veiled  eyes  — 

Oh,  burnished  lashes !  where  the  sun  breaks  through 

and  showers 
Golden  light  in  slender  bars  through  that  sweet  sombrelai 


A  pitch  pine-knot,  split,  in  the  center  of  it, 

has  the  breath  of  God. 

There  is  another  thing  which  is  as  pure  as  that; 
It  hovers  round  a  wholesome  baby's  mouth  ! 


* 


Op 

. 


DEEP  IN  THE  HEART. 

Oh,  mother,  mother,  where  is  the  little  box  with  the  cord  around  it? 

Is  it  in  your  bureau  drawer? 

The  little  box,  dear,  with  the  sacred  lock  of  baby-hair  in  it. 

Oh  mother,  mother! 

Never  mind  — 

There  !  there  !  little  woman  — 

/  know — 

But  I  saw  a  blue  patch  in  the  sky  to-day  ! 


NONE. 

Are  your  arms  empty,  mother-heart? 
Do  they  hang  by  your  side? 

Oh,  thou  great  hungering  desert! 

Oh,  thou  Craving  !  thou  Great  Unsatisfied! 

Oh,  thou!  thou!  I  see  thee — great,  great,  woman-nature, 

Eating  of  restlessness  ;  drinking  of  barrenness  ; 

Turning  aside  still ;  with  wide  eyes  in  the  night  asking. 

Thy  breast  is  shrunken  and  brown; 

Thy  arms  hang  limp  at  thy  side; 

And  ever,  ever  thou  art  filling  thy  life  to  the  brim 

To  stop  the  gnawing  at  thy  vitals ! 

Oh,  my  mother-heart ! 

Knowest  thou  not  that  in  thy  divine  and  inexpressible  longing  thou 

art  mothering  the  sons  of  men? 
Knowest  thou  not  that  in  thy  empty  pain  thou  sittest  brooding  over 

the  world  — 
Brooding  child-love  over  the  world  ? 


MADONNA. 

In  the  little  low  arm-chair 

One  arm  a  world  for  the  tiny  form 

Dreaming  and  resting,  the  mother. 

Dreaming  and  nursing,  the  mother; 

The  eyes  of  the  babe  half-shut  in  blissful  endeavor; 

The  moist  white  breast,  blue-veined,  in  generous  giving; 

The  tiny  palm  hungrily  pressing  its  bounty 

And  the  warm  red  mouth  and  the  drinking ! 

Dreaming  and  resting,  the  mother. 
Withdrawing  awhile  from  the  clamor. 
Sitting  awhile  in  the  sunshine. 
Time  of  the  peace  and  the  heart's-ease; 
Time  of  the  light  and  the  vision; 
Time  of  the  moving  of  angels 
About  the  chair  of  the  mother. 


TINTED  PETAL  OF  A  FLOWER. 

I  awoke  one  night. 

Just  a  sweet  half-waking,  with  dreams  and  dreams  — 

And  something  lay  upon  my  breast ! 

It  was  light,  light  as  the  silk  floss  of  a  "four-o'clock." 

It  was  warm,  warm  as  a  bird's  breast  is,  down  in  the  hot  feathers  of  it. 

It  was  soft,  soft  as  the  sheeny  satin  of  a  crimson  rose-leaf  — 

And  I  was  wondering. 

I  gently  reached  and  touched  it  ( I  was  but  lately  born  a  mother )  — 

It  was  my  baby's  hand  ! 

And  forever  and  forever  there  remains  upon  my  breast  a  little  spot, 
a  shrine,  where  angels  go  to  pray. 


Oh,  the  dimples  and  the  hollows  and  the 

silken  grooves  and  shadows. 
And  the  kisses  and  the  curves, 
And  the  sweet  voluptuous  softness — 
That  lie  about  a  baby's  mouth  and  chin  ! 


THE  OUTER  CORNER  OF  A  BABY'S  EYE. 

That  little  place  where  light  and  shadow  play  ! 

That  little  haunt  where  fleeting  fairies  wave  and  weave  ! 

That  nestling-nest !  that  sweet  seductive  little  vortex, 

half  a  dimple,  half  a  smile 
That  whirls  a  mother's  heart  around  in  its  embrace  ! 


The  little  arms  that  leave  my  passionate  finger  marks 

upon  them 
Like  apple-blossoms  softly  tinged  with  pink. 


The  round  little  legs,  so  pretty  and  so  daintily  shaped ! 
dear,  dear  little  round  firm  legs  —  I  could  squeeze 
them  till  they  burst ! 


The  little,  mighty  thighs  ! 
The  absurdly  powerful  little  thighs  — 
That  think  they  bulge  with  manly  deeds 
and  mighty  conquerings ! 


I  awoke  one 
Just  a  sweet 
And  someth 

It  was  ligh 
It  was  warm 
It  was  soft, 
And  I  was  w 
I  gently  reac 
It  was  my  b? 

And  forever 
a  shr 


GONE. 

I  stand  apart  — 
I  approach  not  — 
My  head  is  bowed  — 

The  faint  strange  perfume  in  the  room. 
The  tiny,  tiny  blossom  in  the  long  white  baby  clothes. 
The  silken  petals  of  the  casket  enfolding.  %  ,., 
And  the  pallor ! 

In  an  upper  chamber  a  woman  rests  heavily  on  the  pillow, 

The  blue  veins  show  in  her  wrist.      .     >:• 

She  is  not  weeping  —  she  is  just  tired,  tired,  s^r 

Her  Soul  is  away  for  a  little  while.     . 

A  man,  alone,  looks  out  over  a  new  grave. 

His  eyes  are  wide  and  very  still. 

His  cheek  bones  show. 

And  oh,  —  the  void !   the  void  !   the  void.!    ...  ,.  • 


I   ONLY   KNOW   THAT  IT  IS  WELL. 

What  was  it  hurt  thee,  dear? 

Did  the  world  seem  to  shudder?     Did  the  hooks  fasten  in  thy  heart? 

What  was  it  hurt  thee  when  the  first  clod  hit  the  little  coffin  — 

Oh  God  !  the  vinegar  rises  in  my  throat  — 

But  there  - 

But  there  - 

It  is  all  right. 

It  is  not  a  strange  world,  dear. 


OH,   INEXPRESSIBLE  ! 

Oh,  to  lay  hold  of  one  packed  jewel  that  would  express  my  baby's 

foot! 
Oh,  to  find  one  ravishing  flower  that  would  shake  fragrance  through 

my  words ! 
Oh,  to  gather  together  the  hot  ideal  of  the  artist,  the  pure  dream 

of  the  sculptor,  the  passion  of  the  poet 
And  mould  them  in  with  rose-leaves,  tints,  and  curves,  and  delicate 

lines ! 
Oh,  to  shower  down  gems  from  out  the  upper  platforms  with  which 

to  stud  the  dainty,  tender,  rosy,  rounded  things  ! 

And  after  all  I  cannot  do  it. 

After  all  the  passionate  mother-names  that  1  have  heaped  upon  them, 

After  all  the  passionate  kisses  (mother's  know)  that  I  have  pressed 

in  to  the  rosy  soles, 
After  all  the  savage  pressure  of  the  little  balls  within  my  hand  —  I 

cannot  do  it. 


I  only  sit  and  burn  straight  things  like  these: 

Oh,  the  soft  rose-tide  on  the  outer  side 

That  wells  up  from  beneath  to  meet  the  white  ! 

Oh,  luscious  rounded  part  so  plump  and  ravishing  between  the  instep 

and  the  toes ! 

Oh,  snowy  little  ankle  and  fragile  ankle-bones  ! 
Oh,  radiance  of  the  ball,  when  the  Pink  Great  Toe  points  daintily 

heavenward 

And  the  four  brides  lift  rosy  faces  with  him  ! 
Oh,  sharp-cut,  tine-cut,  delicate  little  heel  —  a  rosebud  with  a  soul ! 
Oh,  the  long  line  at  the  base  of  the  toes,  the  line  at  the  ankle,  the 

delicate  little  lines  in  the  hollow  of  the  foot ! 
Oh,  dainty  movements,  curves  on  curves,  oh  tints,  oh  petals  of  a 

flower — ! 

Oh,  baby  feet  the  whole  world  round 

Leaving  their  fragrance  in  the  hearts  of  women ! 


INSPIRATION. 

The  mares  in  the  field. 
Cool,  quiet,  unashamed. 
Before  the  passing  patter  of  the  world 
Proclaiming  the  high  and  holy  beauty  of  their  calling. 
With  curved  sides  pushing  against  the  days; 
With  massive  backs, 

And  hips  submerged  and  lost  in  the  slow-creeping  tide  of  mother 
hood. 

Beautiful,  ponderous,  patient  mothers  in  the  field  ! 

Thick  as  flowers  in  the  fields  of  Palo  Alto. 

Long,  long  I  hang  on  the  fence  and  watch  you. 

I  love  your  magnificent  sides,  great,  grand  mother-mares. 

I  love  you  —  I  whisper  it  through  the  fence — 

And  passing,  with  my  eyes,  I  love  you  ! 


WORSHIPED. 

Great  ponderous  dome  of  Womanhood  ! 

Thou  glorious,  golden-weighted  ship  of  Life 

Slow-moving  through  the  heavy  seas  in  mother-majesty 

Sail  on ! 

Sail  on ! 

What  though  thy  breath  be  bitten  off ! 

What  though  thy  heart  beat  thready  double-time 

And  leaden  limbs  refuse  thee  and  deny  thee  ! 

Be  glad,  brave  mother ! 

Thou  'rt  set  full  sail  with  white-winged  ships  of  God 

And  thou  wilt  enter  port  at  sunset 

Side  by  side  with  Him. 


Do  you  see  that  white  light  playing  low  along  the  horizon? 

Do  you  see  the  night  padding  in,  blacker,  blacker 

Save  for  that  narrow  strip  of  sulphurous  light 

Lying  low  along  the  horizon? 

Silent,  ominous  — 

Like  a  long  white  finger  of  God? 

There  is  a  white  light  like  that  playing  along  my  life. 
It  lies  low,  under  the  skirts  of  its  slumber  and  sleep; 
And  it  burns  —  it  burns.     Quietly  - 
With  a  steady  and  ominous  force, 
And  it  is  the  finger  of  God  ! 

Not  farewell,  but  bide  a  wee. 
You  will  hear  from  me  again. 


i  ! ...  .  !".j ! 
-t  1 1  (i  * 


: 


i  1 


Gaylamount 
Pamphlet 

Binder 
Gaylord  Bros..  Inc. 

Stickton,  Calif. 
T.  M.  Reg.  U.S.  Pat.  Off. 


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